


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Being High, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Marijuana, Sweet, Teenagers, Weecest, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't like Sam's new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Sammy is fourteen and Dean is eighteen.

Dean doesn't make friends easily. He's suspicious of everyone and everything, and so naturally when a guy three years older than his fourteen-year-old brother starts hanging around Sam, all surfer boy grins and long legs and wild, mountain man hair, it takes everything in Dean not to shoot him on sight. Sam had been quick to explain that he'd met him at the park where he was skateboarding (or falling from a skateboard, as Dean so loved to correct him), and this new creature, this. This _Harper_ had invited Sam to hang out with his friends one evening and that had turned into one night. One night had turned into two solid weeks of Sam basically gone from the house, and when he is here, he's just talking about the guy. 

It's Friday night and it seems that Sammy's at it again, heading out with Harper, and he hasn't even bothered to ask Dean, his surrogate father since John is out of town (or maybe since always, neither of them know anymore). Now he's stalking through the house, humming happily to himself as he gathers things: the ancient handmade quilt they'd unearthed from a chest in their room at this new rented shack in Moscow, Idaho, some apples from the kitchen (Dean hadn't said a word about those because those apples could only belong to Sam in the first place), and. And. Wait a minute. Wait just a goddamn--

"Oh, hell no. What. Where are you going. Hey, hands off!" Dean practically scampers into the kitchen where his baby brother is standing in the yawned open door of the fridge, unapologetically plucking bottles of beer from the otherwise empty shelves. Dean gathers the beers to his chest like they're his newly hatched eggs, glaring full and hard at Sam. "What the hell's the matter with you, huh? And just where do you think you're going? I've barely seen you all day and you don't say a word to me when you walk in the door and."

Dean stops talking because Sam is gone, fridge door closed and those growing legs taking his brother back through the house where he's lifting his full backpack onto his shoulders. He levels Dean with an unimpressed, unthreatened look. 

"Look, chill out. I'm going to the park with Harper. There's a drum circle there tonight." Sam shrugs, all teenage casual and completely lacking all of the concern and survival skills trained into him by his father and his brother. This is a relatively new Sammy, one that the summer has brought about, one with longer hair and jeans with decidedly bell-shaped legs and flipflops and red-rimmed eyes and reeking of sandalwood. His baby brother is turning into a goddamned _hippie._

"A _drum circle,"_ Dean practically spits out, his eyes blinking several times as the words process. "What the fuck is a drum circle? Is that some kind of pagan ritual sacrifice? Is. Sam. Are you in a cult?"

It's Sam's turn to spin on his heel and raise his eyebrows at Dean.

"What. Dean, are you high? No! No, I'm not in a freakin' cult. Jeez. It's in the park. _In a public place._ It's a bunch of people sitting around and playing drums and dancing and blowing bubbles. It's exactly what it sounds like. Stop being lame and old." Sam rolls his eyes-- a move that _infuriates_ Dean--shrugs his backpack up higher on his back and he's stalking out of the livingroom toward the front door. 

"Am _I_ high? Am." Dean shoves his feet into his falling apart pair of Vans and, beers in hand, heads after Sam, his own legs still longer so he beats him easily to the door. "Sorry, Jerry Garcia. You ain't goin' to no fuckin' orgy without me watching your every move."

"Dean!" Sam's voice is whiny, bratty, nasally in its annoyance, in its adolescence. Dean has to bite down on his tongue to keep from mocking him immediately. "What's the big deal!? It's not an orgy! I've been hanging out with Harper for _two weeks!_ He's the first friend I've ever had who has a license! I'll be back later, I don't need you to hold my hand all the time!"

All Dean hears is that Sammy has found a replacement older brother, one that is "cooler" and has two dreadlocks in the nest of his hair and has a bottomless bag of pot and a vast knowledge of Pink Floyd lyrics and probably doesn't know how to use a .45. He grabs his keys and stalks out the front door, eyes narrowed on Harper who is leaning against his beat-up '87 Honda Accord. Dean snorts to himself. 

"Hey. Woodstock. We're taking my car." Dean brushes past him and reaches into the open window to unlock his door. Sam is standing between the two of them, visibly upset, his long fingers digging at the worn straps of his bag. 

"Harp, I'm sorry, man. Dean doesn't want me to go alone, and--"

"Hey, it's cool, bro. This is a sweet ride anyway. Hey, can I ride shotgun?" Harper shuffles over to the Impala after grabbing his drum and backpack out of his backseat, bright blue eyes flashing over the immaculate body of Dean's baby. 

"No!" Dean and Sam bark together and Dean is around the car and between it and the hippie before Harper can open his mouth again. "Okay, there are some rules when you ride in my car. No bitching about the music. I don't want to listen to Phish or Jethro Tull or whatever you potheads listen to now. Second, don't touch anything. Third, no spraying patchouli in my baby, you got that?"

"Okay, okay, rad. Rad. I'm down with that. Wait. Can I smoke?" Harper holds up a pack of cigarettes and shakes them at Dean with hopeful, raised eyebrows and a grin. Dean's face grows from grim to murderous and all he sees suddenly is the back of Sammy's head as he guides Harper into the car. 

"Whoa, there's so much room back here! You could have like, a party back here!" Harper sprawls out in the backseat and Sam shakes his head with a grin, turning to glance at Dean and catching his eyes, the look of disgust and horror unmistakeable. 

Sam just sighs and shakes his head. "This'll be good for you, Dean. You need to meet more people."

Dean just flounders as Sam lowers himself into the car and closes the door, leaving him sputtering to himself. "Meet more people? Why would I want to meet more braindead morons than I already have?"

 

\--

It's about an hour before sunset by the time they get to the park which is on the east side of town, sprawling and green and echoing with children's laughter. Dean gets stuck carrying the stupid drum and he glares down at it the whole walk like it's a demonic child, wondering what in the hell would possess a bunch of rhythmless white people to sit around on the ground and awkwardly play an instrument that they clearly have no business playing. The sound of the drumming is faint from the car and gets louder with each step they take until it's almost overwhelming as they trudge up the hill toward the clearing where the circle actually is, about two dozen people sitting on the ground, straddling their drums or in chairs, each of them on a seemingly random rhythm but it all comes together on every fifth beat or so, raising a cacophony of heartbeats all the way up to the trees and the glow of the gold and blue sky. All around the circle and within it are moving bodies, bodies doing various things, in various states of dress and undress, long flowing skirts and long flowing hair and bare feet, girls and boys with hula hoops, twisting and moving like it's the most natural thing in the world, little faery like people with long streaming ribbons dancing in the air from sticks they are waving back and forth, some people just dancing, unadulterated, mindless, blind happy fuck the world dancing. Dean has never in his life felt more out of his element. 

Sam turns to Dean and flashes him a bright, excited smile that nearly blocks out the sun and Dean can't help but summon a small one in return, smile at Sam's hazel eyes flashing honey from the sun, his hair lifted in a warm breeze, his smile bone white as the curve of moon faint above him. His eyes get yanked away when he smells Harper near him again.

"Hey, man, thanks for the ride. And for carryin' my skins. Here. As a token of friendship and goodwill." Harper produces a small baggie from his pocket and fishes out a fat, rolled joint from it, handing it to Dean along with a lighter. "Happy times, my man." He claps Dean on the shoulder with that same, blinding grin and he's off, calling out and waving to the drummers like a boy returning home. Dean stares down at the joint, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully.

"Dean?"

The joint and the lighter go into his pocket casually and he looks up to meet Sammy's eyes again, eyebrows raised in question.

"Um. Where are you going to be?" Sam looks worried, self-conscious. His faded, tie-dyed shirt is swallowing him and his hair is long over his ears, curling just a little, making him look almost elven. Dean can tell he hadn't expected to have to think about himself here, to think about what he would look like while he did whatever he was going to do but now Dean is here, now there are eyes that know him, know him better than anyone. And Dean will know when Sam is being different. Dean feels rueful in this moment, feels like he's kept Sam from experiencing something basic and harmless and crucial. From being able to feel untamed, uncaged. To feel like a fucking teenager and not a soldier, a prisoner of a plan. 

"Don't worry about me, Sammy." Dean gives him his kindest look, one that is only ever meant for Sam and he lifts his head back behind him, toward a lone tree. "I'll just go hang out over there. I've got my beer." He lifts the grocery bag in his hand. "And you know I can sleep anywhere. Go have fun. Just wake me up when you're ready to go, okay?"

"Okay." Sam nods, tries to smile, his hands going to his pockets as he glances back at the circle and back to Dean. He's considering. Feeling guilty. Feeling like he's abandoning his brother. The warmth in Dean's chest almost aches.

"Go on, kiddo. Go be a butterfly or whatever it is you kids do at these things." He gives Sam a gentle shove away and grins at him finally and that's the smile Sam had been waiting for, the one that is the key to his cage. He runs away then, two smiles back at Dean between here and there and Dean watches every fall of his still small feet. 

He watches him shyly approach the circle and then be spotted by Harper who pulls him in under his arm and drags him in, introducing him to a few people surrounding him. Sam's smile is bright and genuine but he's looking up through his eyes, through his hair, sweet and a little meek and melting everyone's hearts. Dean knows just how they're feeling. He shakes his head a little and then takes the short walk back to the tree, giving a grunt as he slides down and sits on his ass, back against the bark, the leaves shading him from what's left of the sun and from being noticed by too many people. He pulls one of the bottles from the bag and opens it on his ring, taking a long, thirsty pull as he watches Sam spread out the quilt carefully, not as carefree as all the people around him, making sure all the corners are pulled out and the wrinkles smoothed out and he takes off his shoes, sitting down slowly on the quilt and Harper plops down beside him, the drum tipped toward him between his bent legs and he starts to show Sam some basic drum beats and Sam tries them out quietly, his thin fingers unsure on the rough skin of the drum. 

Dean relaxes back against the tree with a sigh, his eyes lazy but trained on his brother as he nurses two beers in quick succession, leaving his brain feeling a little foggy, pleasantly blank. Sam has a way of being everything, somehow, and every single revelation of the various facets always leaves Dean feeling startled, shell-shocked, a tiny bit betrayed, like he should have seen this coming all along, like he should have picked up this small piece of Sammy's personality _somehow,_ this or that small secret that Sam lets free like a caught thing, that he lets slip from between his gentle fingers and up into the sky, free for everyone to see, for Dean to witness along with the rest of them like he means nothing more than they do. And he knows it's all in his head, that it's probably the beer and the summer and about seven layers of loneliness talking, but there Sam is, somehow at home amongst these sweet, easily affectionate neo-pagan merry men, now playing that damn drum like he's the next fucking John Bonham. He didn't know this Sammy before today. Hadn't even considered his existence. The rolling paper hisses and the herb crackles when Dean lights the joint, taking a deep, savoring draw that he holds in his lungs for a few seconds and then releases in a slow curl of smoke, letting it pour from his lips. His bones are already a little melty. He smiles, his eyes sliding open again. Maybe Harper wasn't such a douche after all.

Dean watches Sam take what he assumes to be his first hit off a joint and he's too high himself to even care. He smiles, the voyeur to his brother's life, watches as he coughs a little and tries to play it off, goes in for another hit almost immediately. He watches as Sammy loosens, unravels slowly but surely, his body unwinding into a happy wisp of a boy, one who closes his eyes and sways with the drums, who takes off his shirt in the dying light of the day and dances in the middle of the circle, there in front of everyone, just digs his bare toes into grass and dirt and dances, a beautiful little heathen child beneath the expanse of purple and pink and orange and stubborn blue sunset, the stars winking down at him from between swirls of color and the fireflies come out in threes and fives, dancing and blinking right along with him, with his Sammy, with that boy over there holding his heart in his spread palms. Sam takes several more puffs from the joint between dances and it feels like years that Dean is here beneath his tree, smoking his own joint and starting in on his third beer, his thin white t-shirt clinging to his body in the heat but he doesn't even notice. Sam is a feather. Sam is an earthbound god. Sam is a prince of colors and fireflies and a bright star caught in heartbeats, in tribute songs. Dean is so. Fucking. High.

"Hey." Sam is suddenly everywhere and Dean's eyes fly open to watch as he plops down on ground in front of him, grass-stained quilt sprawled lazy on the ground beneath him. His hair is damp with sweat and he keeps shaking his hair out of his eyes, his skin red from exertion and he's dripping sweat, the smell of it beautiful mixed with pot and beer and grass and dirt and the leather and wood of the drum and the heat of summer and the breeze that is dragging it all around them, lifting it up into Dean's nose. Dean grunts a response, his legs spreading and he tips his head back, beckoning Sammy wordlessly between them. He doesn't want to move. Sam grins and reaches for Dean's hand. "Come here, lazy ass."

Suddenly Dean is on his back on the quilt and Sammy is tucking in against him, head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, hand spread and resting on Dean's stomach, their bodies puppy piled and comfortable. He lifts a hand and pets through Sammy's sweaty hair, brushing it back from his forehead and tucking it behind his ears before he keeps going with slow sweeps of nails over his scalp. 

"Havin' fun?" 

"Yeah." It's a big word, an emphatic one, an honest one. Dean smiles a little up at the sky, giving Sam's hair an affectionate tug. 

"Why aren't you down there with your friends? You comin' up here to say goodbye before you move onto the commune?"

Sam's hand comes down in a hollow smack against Dean's stomach and Dean wheezes in pain but he grins.

"I've been down there for a couple of hours. I just. I kept thinking about you up here and I just. I don't know." Dean feels him shrug. "I missed you, is all."

"Missed _me?_ But you've seen me literally every day of your life. We share a toothbrush half the time. I don't think you could possibly ever miss me. You have too much time with me stored up. And besides. I'm the lame older brother, right?"

Dean braces for another slap on the stomach but Sammy just wraps tighter around him, one of his legs draping over Dean's body. His face pushes in against Dean's neck and they sigh in tandem. 

"Not old. Not lame. Can miss you if I wanna."

Dean is slowly aware that Sam is sitting up, that his soft breath is on his face. He cracks an eye open and peers up at him, caught searching his eyes until Sam reaches up and runs a hand through Dean's hair and down his scruffy cheek. His smile is sweet and slow and only meant for exactly two people. The kiss is slow and tastes green and gold and sweet as a firefly-lit night. It's so sweet that Dean's bones ache, a feeling that he will forever associate with summer from this night on, summer and Sam's taste on his tongue.


End file.
